


When Doves Cry

by KoreArabin



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Bondage, Chains, Collars, Electricity, Forced, Forensics, Gags, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual, Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: Augustus Dove experiences a bumpy journey from Whitechapel to Dartmoor.Involving non-con forced arousal, imprisonment, and all sorts of other filthy shenanigans.





	1. Why sir, you are flush.

“Why sir, you are _flush_.”

Dove is slumped back against the cool wall of the mortuary, his head and body heavy with fever, but looks up as Jackson presses his wrist against his burning forehead. He does not resist as Jackson grabs the thermometer, forcing it into his mouth and holding it there.

“There’s a fever rising in you, sir. Is there a chill through your bones like a nameless haunting?”

Dove can only watch as Jackson carefully swabs the boy’s throat and, with the aid of his infernal microscope, establishes that he was suffering from scarlet fever. He sits, helpless, _defiant _, and stares them all down when Jackson tears open the front of his shirt and exposes his scarlet rash-reddened chest.__

____

____

Dove blinks. “It is still only circumstantial at best. _Scarlatina_ is an extremely infectious disease. I did not catch it as a boy and, if I have it now, that, surely, is evidence only that the distemper is at large in London, is it not? Or will anyone who has the misfortune to be sickening be subject to your accusations?”

Reid interjects. “But taken with the other evidence – the coat fibres and your brother’s testimony – it builds a persuasive case to answer, does it not, Assistant Commissioner?”

Dove’s face twists into a mocking smile.

“The man held in your cells whom you say is my brother is a lunatic, who claims to have torn out the throats of his victims with his teeth. Your other evidence is, as I have said, circumstantial at best. Will a jury of my peers prefer the testimony of a madman over that of an Assistant Commissioner?”

Dove shakes his head.

“No, they will not. And will they find me guilty, _beyond reasonable doubt_ , upon a few strands of flimsy circumstantial evidence? Condemn me to _hang?_ ”

Reid and Jackson step towards him, and Dove sits up, jangling the manacles holding his wrists behind his back.

“You know, as well as I, that they will not. And so, Reid, call your dogs off me and remove these _now!_ ”

“Why you –“

Jackson cannot stop himself striking Dove hard across the face. 

“You damned, lyin’ child killer. You ain’t going to get away with this one, sir. You are going to take the rap for what you’ve done.”

“Jackson, leave him!” Reid purses his lips and grabs a handful of Dove’s hair, snapping his head back and stooping so that their faces are inches apart.

“What you say may be true. You may escape the gallows. But your reputation will be in tatters and your career will be over. You will never hold public office again. And we shall not cease to pursue you for what you have done, both to this child and to others.”

Dove snarls right back in Reid’s face. 

“I’ll take that chance, Reid. I am a decorated officer, the _Assistant Commissioner_ of this police force and _you_ – what _are you_? A disgraced former officer wanted for the unspeakable death of a man you left to rot in an underground cell! I will not be threatened by you, or your ragtag band of dubious drunken quacks and whores.”

“Detective Inspector Drummond, unlock these cuffs and fetch Chief Inspector Abberline.”

Reid shakes his head.

“No, that is not going to happen. You will be charged with the murder of Robin Sumner and you will stand trial for it.”

Dove stands, shaking with fever and anger. “Detective Inspector!”

Drummond looks between Reid and Dove in consternation, clearly torn between loyalty on the one part, duty on another, and what is morally right on the last.

Finally, it is Jackson who breaks the silent deadlock.

“Gentlemen, let’s just hold our horses here. You, sir, have a raging flush fever and I, as a physician, have a duty to treat it. Even if you profess to believe me to be little more than a barber surgeon.”

Jackson rummages through his medicine chest. “Here it is. I have a draught which will give you much relief, sir. Loath as I am to give you anything other than the pain and suffering you so richly deserve, it will at least render you more responsive to questioning.”

Dove turns and makes to leave the mortuary. 

“I want nothing from you.” 

When Reid and Drummond block his way, he tries to force his way past them.

“Let me pass!”

Reid blocks Dove’s path whilst Drummond seizes his upper arms from behind and holds him tight as he tries to struggle free.

“No! NO! I refuse to take anything from this man! You cannot – I do not – I do not consent to being treated! I do not consent to taking any medication from Captain Jackson! You have no right – you have NO AUTHORITY TO TREAT ME!”

Jackson shakes the bottle he has retrieved from the medicine chest.

“Calm yourself, Dove. Drummond, bring him back here, down into the chair – hold him – yes, like that. Reid, tip his head back and hold his jaw – no, back more. Good.”

“Now, sir,” Jackson leans over a struggling but effectively restrained Dove, his mouth held prised open by Reid’s fingers, pressing painfully into his jaw sockets, and lifts the bottle to his lips, “you _will take your medicine_.”

Dove struggles and chokes, but Jackson pinches his nostrils and Reid holds his mouth shut. Slowly, the draught is swallowed and Dove, still held firmly, begins to sag against the chair back. Jackson signals to the others to release him, and Dove begins to try to speak, his words slurring.

“Tha’ was not med’cine for fever, Jacks’n. Tha’s, tha’s – sed’tive. You give me a sed’tive draught. Tha’s not Hipp’cra’ic Oath, no. You are a charl’tan, sir. You have dosed me ‘gainst my will. I – I will have th’whole sorry crew o’ you, crew o' you...”

Dove then slumps back, unconscious.

Reid stares at Jackson in horror. “What have you done, Captain? Have you poisoned him?”

Jackson shrugs. “No. I have treated him for the fever, as I said. But we also need his guilt proved here, Reid. He killed that boy lying there. There’s no excuse. He must pay for it. You must've figured too that this son-of-a ain’t going to change his story without some – ah - _encouragement_.” 

Then Jackson squints up at Reid, rubbing at his beard in his habitual way.

“This guy ain’t someone who’s going to fold to threats or strong-arming. He can deal with that - he’s a straight-up, duty-on-the-damned-line sort. But where I reckon he’s going to be weak is if he’s confronted with something he can’t control.”

Reid frowns. “Which is?”

“Pleasure. He ain’t going to have no defence against that.”

Jackson has the grace then to look vaguely guilty.

“The draught will treat the fever. But it is also one potent son-of-a-slow-acting-aphrodisiac.”


	2. The Cell

Dove comes around to pitch blackness. He blinks, shaking his head, thinking at first that something has happened to his sight, but he then realises that his eyes are in fact covered by some form of blindfold.

“Wakin' up, Dove? Good.”

It is the damned American, the charlatan who gave him the sedative. 

“How are you feelin’?” Jackson asks.

Unexpectedly, Dove feels much better than before he was knocked out. The headache and fever have subsided and he feels surprisingly well, all things considered. Even so.

“How dare you sedate me against my will! And – blindfold me? Have you gone mad, man?” 

He can sense Jackson moving around him; subtle movements in the air, and the quiet crunch of leather soles on stone. Stone? Where the hell is he?

“Nope. Not mad. Just wanting to have a little chat with you, Dove, now you’re no longer burnin’ up with fever,” says Jackson.

Dove tries to move, and then realises, somewhat belatedly, that he is restrained. How did he miss that little detail? He can move his head, but not much else. He shakes his head violently, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but it stays firmly in place.

“Hey, Dove, calm down. Jus’ gimme a minute and I’ll get that off, and let you have a look at yourself before we begin, see how nice and helpless and exposed I’ve gotten you.”

The blindfold is removed and Dove looks down at himself in horror as he takes in his predicament. He’s been stripped naked and tied in a chair, his arms strapped to the armrests, and his legs pulled up, spread, and secured on top of them. His buttocks are resting on the front of the seat, and he is spread open lewdly with his cock and balls hanging heavy like ripe fruit between his splayed thighs, his unprotected anus tilted forwards and completely on display. Completely open to Jackson’s wryly amused gaze. Completely vulnerable to anything the good doctor decides to do to him.

Curiously, as well as feeling incredibly angry and incredibly humiliated, Dove is suddenly aware that he is also becoming aroused. There’s a delicious tingling in his groin and his cock is beginning to thicken. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear that Jackson has noticed; developing an erection in such a predicament would really be tipping over into complete degradation. To distract him, Dove begins to shout.

“Why am I restrained? Free me – free me this instant, you fucking bastard!”

He tries to rock the chair, hoping that it will tip and that Jackson will have to intervene, perhaps giving him a chance to dislodge his restraints and fight himself free. Jackson just looks on, totally unperturbed.

”The chair’s bolted to the floor, Dove. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Dove continues to struggle, and begins to shout in frustration.

“Help me! _Help me!_ ”

Jackson shrugs. “You holler all you want. We’re in one of the deepest cells in a very old part of this station house. There ain’t no-one goin’ to hear you down here. Oh, and language, Dove. I can’t recall hearing you cursin’ like that before. You need to watch your mouth. I just want to talk to you.”

“Fuck you!”

Jackson steps forward, louring over him, and grasps his throat roughly, not hard enough to choke but pressing down just enough to threaten it.

“Since being nice clearly ain’t workin’, I think we’re going to have to ramp this up a little. So – time to make you a little more uncomfortable.”

Jackson releases his throat and moves away, and Dove struggles violently as a strap is passed down over his head and around his neck. Jackson tightens the strap until it is just on the wrong side of snug, just threatening to cut off his air. Dove swallows, audibly, and then begins to struggle again. Jackson simply adjusts the neck strap until Dove is choking, and forced to be still.

”I really ain’t got a problem with leavin' you here to slowly strangle, you son-of-a-bitch, if that’s what you want.”

Dove shakes his head, as far as he is able to, unable to speak and virtually unable to breathe. Jackson releases the strap and Dove gasps, sucking in great rasping lungfuls of blessed air.

“Now, you murdering piece of shit, I am going ask you to do something. If you agree, then I’m goin’ to release you into the custody of Drummond and he’ll take it from there. But if you disagree, you’re goin' to stay trussed up down here in this cell and then I am goin' to make you do the something anyway. What d’you say?”

Dove refuses to give him the satisfaction of a response and instead stares ahead, stony-faced, jaw clenched tight with anger and humiliation, but startles as the cell door opens abruptly and Edmund Reid steps into the room. Reid’s eyes widen momentarily at the sight of Dove strapped down quite so comprehensively and, of course, at his being so blatantly on display, but makes no comment. Instead, he turns to Jackson. “Any progress?”

“Just getting’ there, Reid. I’ve just been telling our murdering friend here his choices.”

“Which are?” asks Reid.

“To dictate and sign a full confession of his murder of Robin Sumner. That bein’ done, we unstrap him from his current – er – _situation_ and hand him over to Drummond. If he refuses, we make things unpleasant enough for him that he makes the confession anyway.”

Reid nods. “That sounds reasonable enough. So, Mr Dove, your thoughts?”

Dove spits at them, snarling. “Go to hell!”

Now it is Reid’s turn to grasp his throat, but his grip is unrelenting and choking. He hisses into Dove’s ear. 

“Do you not comprehend your situation, Mr Dove? We can do anything we want to you. You are quite, quite helpless.”


	3. The Machine

Dove turns his head as far as he is able, hissing through gritted teeth into Reid’s face.

”Fuck you. Do what you want. You’ll get nothing from me.”

~~~

For all his bravado, Dove is sweating and his stomach roiling in anticipation and trepidation when Jackson moves out of his line of vision and begins to tinker with something behind him. He cannot make out what Jackson is doing but, given his nudity and his vulnerable, opened up position, he is pretty sure that it I going to involve something intimate and no doubt unpleasant. He urgently wills his incipient erection away. He will not give this rabble any further opportunity to shame him.

What Jackson in fact eventually appears with at first makes no sense to Dove. It is a large, hinged wooden case with a handle. Jackson pulls up a chair and places the box on his lap, unfastening the latches and swinging the lid up. Inside are an array of glass and metal objects, neatly held in place in specially shaped compartments, and a mass of electrical wiring. Jackson snaps on a pair of gloves and takes a bottle from the case, opening it and coating his fingers with the liquid inside.

Dove hisses as Jackson places the box on the chair and then takes Dove’s stiffening cock in hand, working it until it is fully erect. Jackson knows that Dove’s hardness is the aphrodisiac side effect of the fever draught, but cannot resist the opportunity to bait his captive.

”You _enjoyin’_ this, Dove? You _like_ bein’ frigged by a man?”

Dove swallows and looks away. He is mortified at the turn of events; a beating, even torture he could understand and process and ultimately cope with, but this – this _humiliation_ , in which his treacherous body appears to be all too complicit – is far harder to bear. He jolts violently as Jackson takes him unawares, attaching something tight and hard and cold around the base of his cock.

”Electrode, Dove. Although it doubles up pretty well as a cock ring.”

Jackson attaches another metal band around the top of his cock, just under the glans, pressing against the sensitive frenulum, then attaches both rings to thin electrical wires emanating from the box. He then covers his fingers in more liquid and moves the chair so that he is sitting directly in front of Dove’s crotch.

Dove hisses and struggles as Jackson begins to massage his exposed anus. Unable to look at his captor, he stares away into the middle distance, avoiding Jackson’s eyes. He is unable to prevent uttering a grunt of discomfort as Jackson begins to press one slick finger into him, working it in and out of him until Jackson can bury it to the knuckle in his anus. Dove moans as Jackson adds another, and begins to scissor them, stretching the tight ring of muscle and opening him up.

"You ever been fucked before, Dove?" Jackson asks, a wry, taunting grin stretching his face. Dove ignores him, but cannot stop himself squirming, as much as he can in his position, as Jackson’s clever fingers explore his sensitive insides.

Jackson finds his prostate and begins to work his fingers in hard circles over it, as Dove moans and writhes, torn between getting away from the forced pleasure, or begging for more. Dove's cock is now fully erect, his cock straining against the solid, ungiving electrodes. He cannot suppress a long groan of frustration as Jackson abruptly withdraws his fingers, moving away to retrieve something else from the box.

Dove shudders as Jackson holds it up for him to see. It is a long, thick metal dildo, which Jackson is slathering in more of the lubricating liquid.

”Gird your loins, Dove. I don’t think I need to tell you where this is going.”


	4. Dartmoor

He didn’t know time could pass so slowly. Every day is the same; the same rain-soaked granite walls, the same back-breaking labour, the same grinding cold, and the same monotonously poor food. Curled up in a foetal position in his cell, clutching the scratchy woollen blanket around him tightly, Dove falls into an exhausted slumber.

He had thought that his arrival at the prison had been the depth of his humiliation; just another poor, anonymous soul bidding adieu to his life of freedom and the chance for happiness. First, giving up his own clothing in exchange for the ill-fitting, infernally itchy prison uniform from which the thin prison-issue underclothes do little to protect his skin. His skin, which years of desk work and fine living and fine clothing have rendered soft and sensitive. And then the humiliation of being stripped naked before the other prisoners, harshly scrubbed with stiff bristled brooms and carbolic before being hosed down with a jet of freezing cold water by the sniggering prison guards. 

~~~

He finds it impossible, in these early days, to reign in his habitual attitude of authority and impose a reasoned, measured response to his incarceration. Forced to carry out apparently pointless tasks, like breaking stones as part of a chain gang out on the cold, dismal moor, or plodding on a treadmill for hours on end, the only point of which appears to be to drag its paddles through piles of sand, makes him lose his temper and turn on the guards.

“Damn you, I am not supposed to be here! I am not a criminal. I have been found guilty by no court of law! I demand that you let me see the Governor this instant!”

He is taken to the Governor in chains, a heavy metal collar around his neck and manacles locked on his wrists and ankles. He is aware that he hardly presents a particularly impressive sight; barefoot, filthy, and chained, but resolves that his demeanour and eloquence of speech shall be ample evidence of his right to be heard.

The Governor’s secretary looks him up and down, and wrinkles his nose. 

The guard informs loudly that prisoner 12366 wishes to speak to the Governor.

The Governor caps his fountain pen and places it carefully on his blotter.

“Yes, 12366?”

Dove swallows his anger at being referred to as a mere number.

“Sir. I am only here because of a terrible injustice. I am a police officer of Scotland Yard, and my enemies have conspired to place me here against my will. I am, Sir, innocent of any wrongdoing. My only crime is to have uncovered the transgressions of others.”

The Governor regards him coolly, leaning back in his chair.

“As an officer of Scotland Yard, you must have a name and a rank, hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Assistant Commissioner Augustus Dove, of H Division.”

The Governor gestures to his secretary. “I see. Williams, fetch me the Metropolitan register – both current and past – past for the last five years.” 

Dove exhales. “Thank you, Sir. Your indulgence here will not go unrewarded, Sir, I swear.”

They wait, uneasily, until Williams returns with the appropriate volumes, placing them before the Governor whilst drawing his attention to several pages flagged with slips of paper. The Governor turns to these, reading each carefully, before turning his gaze back to Dove.

“There are no references at all in this register to even a lowly Constable Augustus Dove of Scotland Yard, let alone an Assistant Commissioner.”

He turns to the guard.

“Is 12366 a lunatic?”

“No, I believe not, Sir. But he is a damned nuisance. He is always after making such claims of superiority, Sir. It is a fair annoyance to us guards as is trying to keep order, but also an encouragement to them prisoners as is like to make mischief.”

Dove cannot contain himself. 

“The Register has been tampered with! You must know me, Sir! Augustus Dove, Assistant Commissioner – I can give you my address in London. My colleagues from H will tell you – I am _Augustus Dove_!”

The Governor slams his hand down on the desk. “I will not listen to another minute of this. You, 12366, may not be diagnosed a lunatic, but your claims mark you as a liar and a fantasist. Guard – you know the penalty for wilful lying in this prison?”

The guard smirks. “I do indeed, Sir. The branks. And as to how long, Sir, in this case?”

The Governor taps his pen in agitation against his blotter.

“Two days, day and night. With close confinement.”

~~~

Dove struggles as he is partly led, partly dragged, away from the Governor’s office. The guard grabs the back of the collar and hauls him up, choking against the cold, unforgiving metal.

“D'ya know what the branks is, _Commissioner_?”

Dove struggles against the metal choking him.

“It’s a punishment for scolding women, or them as tells untruths. So I s’pose you’re the latter here, eh? A liar, what’s been telling the Governor a load of old porky pies.”

He’s dragged along the corridor until they reach an alcove near, as far as he can tell in his half-choked state, to the refectory. He’s forced to sit on a bench which appears to be locked securely to the floor, as his ankles are chained beneath the bench. His wrists are then cuffed together behind his back, then chained to the fetters restraining his feet.

Last of all, the _branks_ is lowered down and secured over his head.


	5. The Branks

He’s heard of it, of course, the branks; the _scold’s bridle_. But now, having it secured tight and heavy around his head, the spiked metal tongue pressing down into his tongue, the iron bars cutting into the soft edges of his lips, he understands its power. To restrain. To punish. To humiliate.

He’s only kept upright by the chain linking the top of the device to the ceiling of the alcove. Whenever he begis to doze, he’s awakened sharply by the metal collar biting into his neck. 

Time begins to run away. Prisoners file past, staring curiously, or whispering to one another, sniggering at the poor sod exposed so wantonly for their amusement.

The light is failing when he begins to feel the urgent need to piss. Will they release him to let him relieve himself, or will they leave him here to further ridicule when he soaks his trousers? 

He fidgets against the bench; he cannot call out, for the branks has silenced him completely.

Then – the sudden warmth against his back is an inferno in the chill dank of the prison passageway. A hand snakes its way into his trousers, palming his cock, and directing it into what feels very much like a bottle neck.

“You need a piss, yes? Well, go on.”

Dove tries to turn to look at his assailant, but is rewarded with a stinging thump to the side of the branks.

“Piss or don’t piss. It’s all the same to me. You can sit here and piss your trousers if you want?”

The warm hand begins to withdraw, and Dove wails against the branks, hoping his struggles will convince his assailant to continue helping him.

“Good boy. Let it go. Yes, like that. Isn’t that better?”

Dove slumps back against the all too human warmth at his back, as his bladder drains into the bottle. God, if he could just stay here, warm and secure, his anonymous benefactor holding him. If he could be wrapped up, safe, the world and all its pain and fear and horror far, far away. 

For the first time since being parted from Nathaniel, he cries. Great, heaving sobs, as he mourns the brother he so loved; the brother he so protected; the brother who then so betrayed him in some whim of religious, righteous zeal.

“Good lad, that’s better, ain’t it? Let it all out. I got you.”

Dove whines at the loss of contact when his benefactor moves away.

“Don’t keen, boy. I’ll be here when they takes this off you. And then you’ll be _my_ boy.”

Dove jumps as a thumb rubs over his anus, pressing the fabric of his prison clothing up into his hole. Proprietorially.

“Mmmm, yes. You’re gonna be my delicious little boi slut, and you’re going to _love_ it.”


End file.
